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your shit,” he warned her. She smiled sweetly at him.
    “Oh, you'll spend a lot longer than twenty-four hours dealing with it.”
    Then she yanked away and stormed into the bedroom.
    Tate didn't have to pack. She wrapped herself into a blanket burrito and stayed like that, listening while Sanders packed a bag for her. She felt kinda bad, but she also knew that he had to be in on the trip – he was going, after all. And she didn't like surprises. Not like that, not ones that underminded her as a business owner and a boss.
    She made one last valiant attempt to refuse to go, but Jameson just picked her up, blanket burrito and all, and carried her out to the car. Before she could work up the energy to seriously be a bitch, they were at the airfield, loading their belongings onto the plane. A private plane; Jameson had finally bought one. Mostly for her – what with Ang's career exploding, he couldn't really visit whenever he wanted, so Tate was flying out to L.A. and Vegas all the time. Eventually, Jameson decided it would be more economical to just buy a plane and give her free use of it.
    She decided not to think about that little fact as she made herself comfortable on a couch. He sat down next to her, taking off his jacket while the plane took off.
    “You've been suspiciously quiet,” he commented, looking down at her.
    “I can get loud if you want,” she offered. He chuckled.
    “No, thank you. I'm surprised you're this uppity. I thought you'd be wrecked with a hangover this morning,” he pointed out.
    “No such luck,” Tate sighed. She was actually pretty sure she might have still been just a little bit drunk. But she wasn't going to tell him that.
    “Good. I hate dealing with you when you're ill.”
    “The feeling is entirely mutual. And I'm not hungover, so don't worry about it.”
    “I won't.”
     
    *
     
    Two hours later, Tate felt like she was going to die. She panted for air, resting her back against a wall. Jameson chuckled.
    “Done?” he asked. She licked her lips, letting her eyes droop shut.
    “You make this worse, I hope you know.”
    “I could leave,” he offered.
    “Could you!?” she snapped back.
    Jameson started to stand up, but at the same time Tate felt her stomach dip to the left and she grabbed onto his pant leg. He didn't move, and when she lurched forward to stick her head over the toilet, he sat back down. Gently gathered all her hair and held it at the back of her head.
    “The things I do for you, baby girl,” he sighed as she dry heaved and gagged into the toilet.
    “God, I have never felt this bad. I just want it to stop,” Tate begged, bracing one hand against the toilet tank. Jameson used his free hand to rub her shoulders.
    “Want something to drink?”
    “No, I'll just puke it up.”
    “Better than stomach acid.”
    “Will you make fun of me if I start crying?” she asked, taking deep breaths as she felt another wave of nausea roll through her stomach.
    “Not till you're done puking, I promise,” he replied. She managed a laugh, but that just made her stomach cramp up worse, and she was back over the toilet.
    Sanders eventually appeared with a ginger ale. Jameson moved to sit on the floor with her, feeding her crackers. She thanked him, then laid down, resting with her head in his lap. She was too hungover to be mad at him anymore. Besides, she knew that most wealthy stock-broker-CEO-financier-tycoon-type dudes wouldn't be willing to hold their girlfriend's hair back while she puked, so she figured that made up for Jameson talking to her staff behind her back.
    When there was absolutely nothing left to vomit up, they finally moved back into the main cabin. Tate stretched out on a couch, beaching herself against Sanders while Jameson went to scrounge up something real that she could eat and potentially hold down.
    “Are you alright?” Sanders asked in a soft voice, closing his laptop.
    “No, I'm dying,” she croaked, shivering. He draped his arm on top of her,